miroir miroir
by Canadino
Summary: Beauty is eternity gazing at itself in a mirror.


**Disclaimer: The only thing I own is the story idea and only some of the witty remarks. I own so little; so please don't steal.**

Background music: -

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The mirror that hung, narrow and inconspicuous, in Akashi's room did not see much use. It often caught the light, as it had been strategically placed by the interior designers his father hired when the manor was first built to optimize the room's _fung-shui_, casting a glare into a corner and lighting up the rest of the room. It reflected Akashi very sparsely during the day, catching him for a few seconds at the start of the morning where he gave himself a quick check but otherwise, the red of his hair would catch fleetingly in the mirror or the rustle of fabric as he threw on a jacket. Yet the mirror always stood rapt at attention. It portrayed, emotionlessly, the way Akashi slid out of his clothes and pulled up the small expanse of skirt, sliding past his thighs to rest daintily on his hips. He stood for a long time looking at himself.

His shoulders were much too wide to be a girl's, but aptly for a family who lived on power, he retained his mother's fast metabolism and stayed lanky, but a _shogi_ player did not have much time to dwell on meals as it were. He'd lost weight since the last time he'd really inspected himself – _he'd_ have something to say about it. There were no new freckles or moles on his skin, and he turned to gaze on his spotlessly white back. The skirt did not have the faint pinkish tint of skin and dazzled against his thighs. He had muscle and jutting hipbones and was not soft and smooth like a woman.

Akashi hummed a single note as he slipped on a pair of white lace panties, his fingers pulling at the delicate trim of black ribbon as they mapped out the contours of his bottom. They could be seen faintly through the skirt, and peeked out teasingly if he so much as leaned forward a bit.

Ryouta had a way about his body language that Akashi had never fully grasped, but was always fascinated about. The way he carried himself and the peculiar mechanisms he used to get other's attentions mystified Akashi, who had no need for superfluous gestures. In the mirror, he brought his hands up to his face and slid them down to his neck, splaying the fingers of one hand across his collarbone and caressing his jaw with the other. Through his red-gold eyes, he couldn't be sure of the sensual nature of this action, though he had seen from other observers that Ryouta doing such a thing warranted very physical reactions – dilated pupils, increased heart rates, flushed skin. He'd bent over to speak to someone seated, but Ryouta had a way that when he lowered himself to whisper in another's ear, he received a different reaction than when Akashi did so. His eyes could see everything.

It was a peculiar thing, Akashi thought, as he ran his hands slowly down from his hips and down the front of his skirt, between his thighs and down to his knees, that for the majority, the Japanese were a hairless group, rarely growing the thick beards of the Western world. His father said once that indicated a sense of superiority. The Stone Age was eons before. He hadn't played basketball in years now, but he lowered himself down to his toes. The skirt tickled his chin, soft and innocent. He straightened and saw himself again in the mirror, a young man in a skirt.

The door to his room caught and opened and Midorima filled the doorway and choked upon the sight. Akashi met his eyes in the mirror. "What are you doing, Akashi," Midorima murmured, swallowing. His hands were damp and his heart rate was increasing. Akashi could see all this without turning around, and his arms were at his sides and he was standing still in front of the mirror.

He turned and Midorima closed the door behind him. The skirt ruffled with the motion. "Come," Akashi ordered, and Midorima stepped toward him as if transfixed; a hand extended in the air was enough to make the medical intern drop to his knees and turn his eyes up almost in reverence. "Kiss here," he said, and swept the skirt back to reveal a milky thigh. "Here." His hand rested at his abdomen.

Midorima swallowed again and came forward, pressing his nose into the skirt and closing his eyes before administering a gentle kiss on Akashi's thigh. His hands were shaking. Akashi had seen this sort of reaction before very rarely on Midorima. He had been hoping for such an outcome. "Mark me," he whispered, sliding Midorima's glasses off the bridge of his nose, where they had been pressing cold glass against Akashi's inner thigh. "Take me," he said, and Midorima carried him out of the view of the mirror.

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Note: the day i regret boys in skirts will be a sad day indeed


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